


Putting up Shelves

by khorazir



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Banter, Bisexual John Watson, Communication, Demisexual Sherlock Holmes, Don't copy to another site, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, IKEA Furniture, Inexperienced Sherlock Holmes, Isolated, Jealous John, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Post-Season/Series 03, Quarantine, Season/Series 4 is ignored, Sherlock being creative, lockdown - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:34:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23953147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/pseuds/khorazir
Summary: Sherlock claims to be an expert at putting up shelves. John gets the totally wrong idea. DIY, awkwardness and some soul-searching ensue. And some shelves are put up ...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 157
Kudos: 496
Collections: HolmesCon Writers Collection, Isolated Johnlock Collection, Sherlock Author Showcase 2020, Sherlock Fandom VS 2020





	Putting up Shelves

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Повесить полки (Putting up Shelves)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24641257) by [Lesli_rus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesli_rus/pseuds/Lesli_rus)



> This fic started out as a cracky idea for a quarantine fic and grew into something a bit longer than intended. I tried to keep the tone light throughout, though, and added some art that’s mostly different in style from what I usually do. It’s actually part of the story (Sherlock has been creative ...). Many thanks go to my brilliant beta rifleman_s. This fic stands alone and isn’t part of my other series.

“Sherlock, are you doing anything important at the moment?” John lowers the Patrick O’Brian novel he’s been trying to read ever since they were forced into self-quarantine a week ago due to a suspected Corona-infection at his surgery.

Sherlock hums vaguely but doesn’t look up from his current occupation. He is seated at the desk where he has been typing something on his laptop – no, John’s laptop. Of course. The lazy git. His own is in the kitchen next to his unfinished experiment. He is still wearing his pyjamas and the blue silk dressing gown. His tousled hair and socked feet soften his appearance and make him look strangely ... adorable.

 _Now where has this come from?_ John pushes down the thought. Sherlock isn’t adorable. Most of the time, at least. He is sharp, clever, biting, generous, selfless, funny, attractive (yes, he is, seen purely objectively, of course). He’s also more than a bit round the bend. Human, too, when he allows it to show. He’d be the first to balk at the description of ‘adorable’, but right now, with the sunlight falling through the sitting room windows giving his hair a golden halo and his overall rumpled and unpolished appearance, it’s the one that fits best. John finds himself staring from his seat in his armchair and chastises himself for doing so. He’s accepted by now that his feelings for Sherlock left the realm of ‘friendship’ a long time ago, even before the idiot took a leap off Barts roof. John loves him, fiercely, in a way and intensity that continues to surprise and scare him in its novelty. It’s far beyond physical attraction, beyond vague labels of sexuality. It’s just ... there. And it’s growing daily. And John doesn’t know what to do about it, whether he should be doing anything, although something _has_ to happen, and soon, or he will burst.

Sadly, whatever Sherlock feels towards John he’s kept securely locked away so far. John knows he values him as a friend. More than values, in fact. Hell, he jumped off a bloody building and shot a man in the head to keep John safe and happy – or at least preserve things that he presumed would make John happy, namely saving his shambles of a marriage and downgrading his own importance to the status of ‘best friend’. Sometimes, John catches Sherlock stealing glances at him, looking strangely wistful and sad. ‘Pining’ would be a way to describe it. But is this ‘pining’ for John and perhaps a deepening or change of their already almost symbiotic relationship? Does Sherlock actually do things like physical intimacy and sex? Does he desire them at all? So far, what John managed to gather about his past has been inconclusive, and whenever he tries to interrogate Sherlock about potential past lovers the answers have been evasive or contradictory – in those cases when Sherlock deigned to answer at all and didn’t brush off the question with a joke or a jibe at John’s own jinxed love life.

He has made remarks about John’s lack of dating efforts even before lockdown and quarantine. The truth is, ever since Mary’s disappearance and the subsequent dissolution of their marriage, John hasn’t even thought about taking up dating again. He is happy back at Baker Street with his Consulting Detective. Their life is almost back to how it was before the Fall, unless one counts those strange moments of tension, the stolen glances and light touches and the increased, infuriating closeness. If only John knew what to make of it ...

“Just answering emails,” replies Sherlock. “Why? Are you bored again already?” 

John sighs. Yes, he is. In an unexpected reversal of their usual roles, it has to be said that Sherlock has been enduring this forced stay at home much better than John. He solves cases via Skype or email, discusses findings with officers from the Met via Discord, entertains himself with experiments, or composes music. He’s taken to cooking and baking, for God’s sake, calling it ‘applied chemistry’ and producing surprisingly edible results without turning the kitchen into a disaster zone. He’s even been talking about setting up an apiary on the roof and taking up beekeeping.

John hasn’t been faring so well. He does work from home, taking calls from patients and doling out health advice via phone and skype and prescriptions via email. He also does some work for the NHS helpline. But he feels ill at ease. He should be working in a hospital right now where healthcare professionals are desperately needed. He hopes he can get a test and an all clear soon so that he can return to the frontlines. Sitting at home while so many of his colleagues are working double and triple shifts is wearing him down. All the projects he imagined he’d attempt once he had more time on his hands he hasn’t touched, proving that it wasn’t a lack of time that kept him from doing them but a lack of motivation – a lack which has persisted despite the ever increasing dark cloud of boredom settling over him.

Therefore, “Yes,” he huffs and puts away the novel. “I was thinking of finally tackling those IKEA shelves the boxes of which have been sitting down in 221C for ages now. Could do with some extra storage space for all those items that got delivered in bulk – and for some of your weirder experiments, too.”

Sherlock presses ‘enter’, shuts the laptop and turns to John. “All right. You need my help?”

“Yes. It’s easier with two people.”

Sherlock nods, stands, lets the dressing gown slide from his shoulders in a gesture that would have looked dramatic but for his otherwise rumpled state, and stalks across the living room towards his bedroom. “I’ll get changed.”

John watches him with a frown, surprised by his sudden willingness to help. Most household chores continue to be John’s department unless he really puts a foot down and makes Sherlock clean and tidy. “Wasn’t expecting you to be so eager,” he comments. “Guess you’re bored, too, aren’t you?”

Sherlock turns to him. “Not bored, intrigued. You are right, it’s about time we converted 221C into a usable space, and now’s the perfect opportunity. Also,” he adds, “I have plenty of experience putting up shelves. You might go so far as to consider me an expert.” He winks at John and disappears down the corridor.

 _What?_ John sits staring after his flatmate in shock and surprise. _Did he mean what I think he meant? Does he even know and understand the euphemism? Despite his brilliance and extensive knowledge in some areas he’s ridiculously oblivious in others. Is he just taking the piss? That wink ... what was that supposed to mean? What. The. Hell._

“What do you mean, you’re an expert?” demands John when Sherlock returns, now dressed in threadbare jeans, an ancient University of Cambridge t-shirt and trainers.

Sherlock frowns at him and shrugs. “Putting up shelves. I’ve done it several times.”

“Where and when?” _With whom?_

“The chippy down the road, for example. Fred who owns it asked and I had nothing better to do. Why do you think we’ve been getting free condiments and extra-large portions ever since?”

John swallows. His throat is dry and tight. “What?” He stands, aware that his left hand is clenching at his side. He wills it to stop.

“Just an exchange of favours. Do we need any tools?”

“Tools?”

“Yes, for the shelves. Seriously, John, what’s the matter with you? You look peaky of a sudden. You’re not getting sick, are you?”

“Peaky ...,” John shakes himself. “I’m just ... surprised, I guess. Didn’t know you were going in for that kind of thing.”

Sherlock regards him questioningly, one eyebrow arched. “What kind of thing? DIY?”

John barks out a hard laugh. He’s jealous, that’s what he is. Fred from the chippy of all people. Well, he is handsome, with dark skin and great hair and kind eyes. Quite fit, too. Works out, probably. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“John, I have no idea what you are talking about. You’re not making sense.”

“I was talking about you ... ‘assisting’ Fred from the chip-shop.”

“I was just being kind. Don’t you always tell me to be kinder to people? I was on this occasion, and it paid off. Extra large portions, as I mentioned. You’ve been enjoying them, too. And free ketchup and mayonnaise sometimes even mushy peas, and all just for lending a hand where it was needed.”

John laughs humourlessly. “Lending a hand, right.”

Sherlock steps closer, gazing at John intently and with a measure of anxiety. “John, you are starting to worry me. Let me check for fever. You don’t look and sound as though you’re feeling well.”

“I’m not ill. Just ... Did you only lend a ‘hand’, then?”

“What else? I didn’t use my feet or mouth. John, I will fetch the thermometer now. You must have caught the virus. You’re babbling nonsense. Are you feeling fatigued? Smell and taste okay? Can you breathe properly?”

“I’m fine, Sherlock. Just surprised. Didn’t expect Fred to be your type, that’s all.”

“My ... type? What has ‘type’ to do with putting up shelves?”

“So he isn’t? It was just a casual thing?”

“Of course. I won’t set up in business.”

“Ah, okay, then. Hope you ... you know ... used protection.”

“There was no need. I washed my hands afterwards. Can we go downstairs now and start unpacking? Hopkins is going to send over some promising case-files later and I’d like to be finished by then.”

John swallows and nods, his head spinning. Sherlock is still looking at him strangely but refrains from commenting. As they descend the stairs and pass the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat, she peeks out and smiles at them, tape measure slung over her shoulders. She has been sewing face masks all morning. “I’ve almost finished a new batch,” she announces proudly. “I made some for you boys, too, for when you go out shopping.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” says John. “That’s very kind.”

“Where are you two off to, then?”

“Downstairs,” explains Sherlock, “to put up some shelves.”

She blushes, hiding a giggle behind her hand. “You naughty boys. Can’t you use either of the bedrooms upstairs?”

Sherlock frowns at her, the bridge of his nose crinkling adorably. “There isn’t enough space in the bedrooms.”

“No?”

He gazes at John, then back to her. “We’re going to assemble the IKEA shelves down in 221C to create extra storage facilities.”

Mrs. Hudson laughs. “Oh, you mean actual shelves? Well, good luck, then. Have fun, though.” Still giggling at Sherlock’s confused expression, she returns to her flat.

Sherlock looks at John. “What did she mean, ‘actual shelves’? And why was she laughing? I know that neither of us looks like an expert carpenter but putting together IKEA furniture is not actually difficult.”

“I think she thought you were referring to the other ‘putting up shelves’, the one you did with Fred.”

Now Sherlock looks completely confused, an expression on his face that is both cute and altogether weird and disturbing. He blinks a few times. John is reminded of how he stood blinking for what seemed minutes when he asked him to be his best man, when the fact that Sherlock was John’s best friend took a while to compute in that massive brain.

“I don’t understand, John,” he states slowly. John knows what this admission must have cost him. Usually, Sherlock hates not knowing things, and confessing his shortcomings even more. “What ‘other’ putting up shelves are you referring to?”

John cocks his head, studying him. Does he really have to spell it out? Or is Sherlock playing dumb to make fun of him? “You know,” he says evasively, making a gesture to describe what he means. Sherlock looks even more confused. John huffs and brushes past him to get to the stairs leading down to 221C. A pleading and yet commanding “Explain” makes him slow down.

Heaving a deep breath, he turns to Sherlock, fixes him with a steady look, and says, “Sex, Sherlock. I was referring to sex.”

Sherlock blinks. And blinks. After a while, his mouth opens in a silent “Oh” and shuts again. He blinks some more. Eventually, he swallows. A faint flush is adorning his cheeks. “What has sex to do with shelves?” he enquires cautiously.

John stares at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

Sherlock’s brows draw together. He squares his shoulders. “Obviously not. Is it ... an expression?”

John frowns up at him, his confused expression, and begins to laugh. “Yes, Sherlock, yes, it is. It’s a euphemism for sex. Putting up shelves. Surely you knew. Come on, admit it. You’re playing dumb so that I embarrass myself trying to explain.”

Sherlock’s head twitches in a shake. “That would be tempting, but no. I never heard of it before.” He thinks for a moment. “It doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. What’s sex got to do with assembling furniture?”

John shakes his head, still laughing softly. “I have no idea. Perhaps it really has to do with, you know ... lending a hand.”

Sherlock nods thoughtfully. “I see. And Mrs. Hudson just thought ... oh.”

John giggles. “Well, she has been thinking that ever since I moved in, I guess.”

“That we are ‘putting up shelves’?”

“That we’re shagging, yes.”

Sherlock nods slowly once again. Then his eyes narrow suddenly when they fall onto the stairs. “When you suggested we head down to 221C, what exactly were you referring to?”

It’s John’s turn to be startled. “Er ... actual IKEA shelving that needs putting up.”

Sherlock’s face does a strange thing John finds annoyingly difficult to read. There’s definitely relief there, which makes John a little sad. But there’s something else as well. He can’t be certain. Is it ... could it be ... regret?

Sherlock swallows. “Good,” he manages, his voice a little hoarse. He swallows again, avoids meeting John’s gaze. The blush on his high cheekbones is even deeper now. He waves a hand towards the stairs. “After you.”

–<o>–

They have unpacked the cardboard boxes in the dingy basement flat with its gaudy, peeling wallpaper, spread out parts and tools, and Sherlock is pouring over the instructions when John can’t contain his curiosity any longer. “What exactly did you do with Fred from the chippy, then, to earn you those extra portions?”

Sherlock looks up from the leaflet, smirks at his flatmate. “As I said. Lent a hand with putting up some shelves.”

“Ha ha, very funny. You didn’t actually ... you know, did you?”

“What. Sell my virtue for chips and ketchup and mushy peas? Come to think of it, though, the chips are really good, and free ketchup isn’t to be frowned at.”

John growls softly. “Hilarious. Really.”

Sherlock laughs brightly. “Your face right now. Priceless. Pull your mind out of the gutter, John. It was real, actual shelves I helped him build. Not IKEA, some other company’s. Some parts were rather tricky and required two people, as this manual here suggests, too. See? No need to worry about my virtue, or what’s left of it.”

John snorts. “I’m not worried about your virtue. I don’t care if you shag around to get free food, although it would be a bit weird.” _Liar._

“We do get free food at a good number of venues, but not because of my sexual exploits or particular prowess in that area, but because I helped people by solving cases – or assisting with furniture assembly.”

John huffs out a laugh. “That’s true. Sorry about,” he waves a hand, “the misunderstanding. Hand me those wooden pegs and the short boards, please.”

Sherlock does so. John is aware of his eyes lingering on his face. He feels his own cheeks heat and ducks his head, beginning to fit the pegs into the small holes at the ends of the boards. Eventually, Sherlock busies himself with another part of shelf. They’ve been working in companionable silence for a while when Sherlock clears his throat.

“It bothered you,” he states.

John looks up from where he has been kneeling on the floor. “What bothered me?”

Sherlock gazes at him steadily. “The thought of me having sex with Fred.”

John holds his gaze, licks his lips. “No,” he lies. “I ... just ... I didn’t think you went in for that kind of thing.”

“Sex?”

“Yeah. Or rather, casual sex.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows arch. He looks somewhat amused. “Didn’t you read the papers about what happened with Janine?”

John snorts. “I did. Some of them, at least. But those stories were total rubbish.” His eyes narrow as he watches Sherlock. “Weren’t they?”

Sherlock bites his lower lip, his expression playful and mysterious. “Well ...”

“Sherlock!”

He bursts out laughing. “Of course, they were. Don’t be silly. She totally made them up to take revenge for my lying to her. We never went beyond kissing – to her regret, apparently.”

“Not yours?”

“No. I didn’t particularly enjoy it. Not necessarily because she was bad at it. I guess I wasn’t very good, though,” he adds thoughtfully. “But I never wanted to sleep with her.”

“What about The Woman?” bursts out of John before he can stop himself. He’s been trying to get an answer to this question for a long time now.

Sherlock’s expression turns grave again. “What about her?”

“Did you want to sleep with her?”

Sherlock gives John a look he’s come to recognise as one of his ‘Don’t be an idiot’ glares. “No,” he says, slowly and clearly. “As I recall mentioning several years ago: not my area.”

“But you were clearly hers.”

“As an adversary, yes – and wasn’t she a worthy one? She certainly kept me on my toes. Never as an object of desire, though – neither she for me nor I for her. She is a lesbian, John, remember? Men are just business for her.”

“Was, you mean? She _was_ a lesbian.”

“She’s still alive.”

“Ah.” John is less surprised as he ought to be, he reckons. He wonders how Sherlock learned of it. Surely there is a story behind it. He decides that it’s a conversation for another time, as the present one is far too interesting and important.

“And,” goes on Sherlock, “as far as I know, she has been happily married to her former assistant Kate for some time. A woman, by the way, as you may recall.”

“I know she’s a woman,” grouses John but without ire, remembering the capable, attractive redhead. His eyes linger on Sherlock who returns his gaze with patient, half-suppressed amusement. “So ... women really aren’t your area, are they?”

Sherlock sighs dramatically. “I told you years ago. If only you’d listened.”

John swallows. His heart is racing suddenly. He’s learned more intimate information about Sherlock just now than he managed to piece together during years of cohabitation. He hopes the well won’t dry up just now and decides to take a gamble. “So ... uhm ... what _is_ your area, then?”

Sherlock’s spine straightens. He seems very interested in the instruction manual of a sudden. His cheeks are tinged crimson.

“Sherlock?” prompts John gently. He watches as Sherlock swallows slightly, worries his lower lip with his teeth. Eventually, he draws a breath and raises his eyes to John’s. He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Not sure I’ve got one,” he confesses quietly.

“So you don’t ... you know, feel attracted to people? Sexually, I mean. Romantically, too, maybe.”

Sherlock makes a vague gesture. “How do you define sexual attraction as opposed to other forms of it?”

“Not sure, to be honest. Guess everybody has to decide that for themselves. But have you never ... you know ... seen or met a person you wanted to get intimate with? Or just have some fun with? Or blow off steam?”

Sherlock thinks for a moment, then shrugs again. “Very rarely, if at all.” _Who who who?_ “I don’t like the idea of being touched by strangers or touching them in return. And I certainly don’t consider exchanging bodily fluids with anybody I don’t know well or particularly like desirable in any way, or ‘fun’, as you described it. On the contrary, the mere thought is both alarming and repulsive, and appears to be a complete waste of time and energy that could be spent far more profitably and enjoyably elsewhere.”

John nods slowly. Sherlock is clearly uncomfortable. John feels bad for interrogating him like this, despite his raging curiosity. “But they weren’t women,” he states, “those rare humans that did interest you.”

“They weren’t women,” confirms Sherlock.

“So you’re ... what? Mostly asexual and a little gay?” sums up John, trying to add some levity to their conversation.

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitch in a smile. “Perhaps. I don’t think there’s a label for what I am, and I don’t feel I require one.”

John nods. He doesn’t really have a label for himself, either. “Fair enough.”

–<o>–

Silence descends on the flat again as they continue to work, each lost in his thoughts. “So what exactly did Fred from the chippy say to you to get you to help him?” enquires John as they stand next to each other fitting together part of the shelving.

Sherlock laughs softly, shaking his head. “It really does bother you, doesn’t it? Why? I told you. He asked if I could help him to put up some shelves. I said yes. Then I just did what we are doing now. Helped him put up his shelves. I did suggest some modifications, though, for a better fit.” He frowns. “Although come to think of it, when he asked me ... I think he might have wanted something else.”

John begins to giggle. “Oh my God, I think I can see it. Him flirting with you and you being totally oblivious.”

Sherlock frowns. “Why would he flirt with me?”

John nudges his side gently with his elbow. “See? Usually, you’re absolutely brilliant at most things you do, only sometimes you’re a total idiot. I mean ...,” he waves his hand at Sherlock.

“What?”

“Seriously? Why wouldn’t people flirt with you, or try to get into your pants?”

Sherlock blinks again. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope.”

John sighs, puts down the piece of wood he’s been holding. “You’re incredibly attractive, and witty, and clever, and charming, too, when you’re not being an arsehole to people, and—”

“You think I am attractive?”

Blood rushes into John’s cheeks. _Brilliant work, Watson. Really, really good._ “Uhm ... you know ... as men go. Objectively speaking.”

“You said ‘incredibly attractive’. The adjective was added deliberately, therefore not signifying objectivity.”

John swallows. _Shit shit shit._ He meets Sherlock’s inquisitive gaze squarely. “Okay, yes, I find you attractive. I mean ... how could I not? With your cheekbones and your hair and ...” _Don’t look at his arse, don’t look at— Damn._

Sherlock notices, of course he does. He smirks, one eyebrow arching. “I see,” he says quietly, his voice deeper than usual.

John sniffs. “Yeah.” He doesn’t look at Sherlock, doesn’t need to feel even more embarrassed. His cheeks and ears are burning. A spiky elbow pokes his side gently.

“Just for the record,” says Sherlock, also avoiding John’s eyes, “you’re not too bad, either. As attractiveness goes, I mean.”

John’s head whips round to him. “Really?”

Sherlock shrugs, ducking his head. “Clearly superior to Fred from the chippy. And most others.”

Their eyes lock and simultaneously, they begin to laugh. “That’s ... uhm ... good to know,” says John. “Poor Fred, I do feel sorry for him. I mean, I’m sure he was delighted when you agreed to his offer, only to find out that all you were prepared to do was actual shelf assembly.”

“He got some expertly assembled and much improved shelves in return, so he must have understood the practical value of my services.”

“Clearly. Hence the extra chips.”

“And mushy peas.”

“Yeah, and mushy peas. Did he throw in a pickled egg as well?”

“Only once.”

John chuckles. He’s relieved they’ve left the serious talk behind (as revelatory and probably necessary as it was) and are back at what they do best: joking and bickering with each other. He feels buoyant and happy, mostly about Sherlock’s admission that he finds John attractive – even if nothing ever comes out of it. He’s also relieved that Sherlock didn’t have an affair with The Woman or Janine, nor with any other woman. Nothing happened with this Fred chap, too. He does wonder who those select few men were Sherlock showed an interest in, and whether he actually had a relationship with any of them. Casual encounters don’t seem to be Sherlock’s thing at all. Perhaps Mycroft was right with what he implied about his brother’s lack of sexual experience back at Buckingham Palace during the Irene Adler case. Sherlock does have a profound theoretical knowledge. John knows this from past cases. But has he ever actually had sex? Does he even want to? Did he lie when he claimed it didn’t alarm him?

“You are thinking so loudly you might as well be shouting,” mutters Sherlock as together, they’re fitting a shelf between the side parts and securing it. John blushes and curses himself for it. “You could simply ask, you know,” goes on Sherlock evenly. “It’s not as though you haven’t already interrogated me thoroughly about my sexual proclivities – or lack thereof.”

John huffs. “You’ve never been so forthcoming with information before.”

“You’ve never showed such blatant jealousy before – although your conduct when I appeared to be dating Janine was a fascinating study. And you’ve always been overly protective of me when it came to my dealings with The Woman.”

“I’m not jealous,” splutters John. “Why would I be jealous?”

“You tell me,” says Sherlock airily

John glares at him. “I’m not. I just ... you know, I sometimes worried about you scorning most human affection. It’s not ...”

“Normal,” states Sherlock, a strange timbre to his voice. He almost sounds hurt.

John quickly shakes his head. “No. It’s not healthy. For you, I mean. I always wondered if you really were happy the way you chose to be – with regards to other people, I mean.”

Sherlock casts down his eyes, seems very interested in the wood grain of the shelf which he traces with a finger. “I never _chose_ to be like this,” he says very quietly. “It’s just the way I am, that I’ve always been. I’m ... different. People don’t ... They tend not to like me very much, perhaps because they don’t see the necessity to try to understand me. Most of them, at least. There appear to be exceptions, most of them quite recently. And I ... quite early in my life, I had internalised that to avoid major confrontations and the hurt they would inevitably cause. I had to be prepared, had to protect myself, so I learned to attack, to keep them at bay with harsh words and scathing deductions. And it worked. It worked so well that soon, they stayed away, and their remarks didn’t hurt as much anymore. I convinced myself I didn’t need other people, that I was happy on my own, that I wasn’t ...”

John gazes at him, pity welling up in him. “Lonely?” he finishes Sherlock’s sentence, speaking gently, his throat tight.

Sherlock’s head twitches in a faint nod. He runs a hand through his hair. “Not a very conducive attitude to inviting or maintaining friendships, I admit.”

“Or romance?”

“I’m not interested in _romance_.” The last word is spoken with disdain.

John smiles faintly. “What _are_ you interested in? When it comes to other people, I mean.”

Sherlock shrugs and sighs. “I don’t know,” he admits, looking a little put out with himself. “ _Feelings,_ ” he spits out contemptuously. “They’re so fiendishly difficult.”

John laughs dryly. “Truer words were never spoken.”

Sherlock smiles briefly, before motioning to John to hand him the next shelf. They finish assembling the whole thing in silence before moving on to the next. There are more things John wants to ask. He feels an acute need to comfort Sherlock after his touching confession but knows that any indication of acting out of pity would be unwelcome. A thought begins to take shape. It’ll take courage to voice it. It might even end in disaster and destroy what they have managed to rebuild ever since John moved back to Baker Street. But Sherlock has been surprisingly, shockingly open and honest just now. John feels he has to do something to show him how much he cares. _Cards on the table, Watson. You’ve been a bloody coward when it comes to facing up to your own feelings for far too long. There’s never been more at stake, but you have to take this gamble._

They’ve finished the second shelf as well. Sherlock glances at his watch. “Your appointment with Hopkins?” enquires John.

“In five minutes, yes. Enough time for a brief visit to the loo and making a cup of tea. You want one.”

John smiles at the lack of question. “Yes, I do. Thanks.”

“We can finish this tomorrow.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Sherlock brushes some dust from his jeans and stretches. The hem of the t-shit rides up a little, exposing a flat, white belly with a faint trail of dark ginger hair. John looks, deliberately, this time – so deliberately that he knows Sherlock must notice. Which of course he does. He gazes at John, his eyes narrowing. John licks his lips. Something flickers in Sherlock’s eyes. His pupils dilate ever so slightly. _Cards on the table!_

John swallows, clears his throat. “You know ... in the spirit of ...,” he waves a hand. _This is bloody difficult. Why is it so difficult? You’ve flirted before, idiot. Yes, but not with someone you really, desperately were in love with. It’s never counted before the way this counts now. You must not mess this up._ He swallows again. “The spirit of full disclosure. If you ... uhm ... ever felt you wanted to try out the other ... uhm ... putting up shelves thing ...”

Sherlock’s eyes wide almost comically as he stares at John in what he assumes is shock. He ploughs on. There is no way back now. “The one you didn’t do with Fred from the chippy, I mean ...” He bites his lower lip, then points at himself and gives Sherlock what he hopes is a smile.

Sherlock continues to stare at him, looking like a deer in headlights. John wonders if he has somehow broken that brilliant brain. “Sherlock?” he prompts when after a considerable time, no other reaction manifests, not even blinking. _Oh God, I’ve found the off switch. How do I turn him on again? Brilliant choice of words, John._

Finally, Sherlock blinks, only once. He swallows audibly. “You ... want to have sex with me?”

 _Cards on the table,_ John reminds himself sternly. He takes a deep breath and looks Sherlock squarely in the eyes. “Yes. But that’s not all. I ... this isn’t just about sex, Sherlock. It’s more than that, actually.”

“What is?” manages Sherlock, his voice rough.

“What I feel for you. Have been feeling for quite some time. It’s ... I’ve never felt this strongly for anybody else before. Not Mary, not ... anybody. It’s always been you, in a way, ever since we met. Took me ages to understand and accept it. But ... yeah. It’s serious. For me. There’s never been anybody like you before, and I fear there won’t be now. It’ll be you for the end of my days, I guess. I hope. But ... you know ... nothing has to change. Between us, that is. If you don’t want. If you don’t feel the same for me. You said you don’t want romance and are rarely interested in physical stuff. That’s fine. Honestly. Well, not _fine_ , per se. But okay. Acceptable. I’ll manage. As I said, nothing has to change. You can delete what I said, if you want. If it bothers you.” He laughs nervously. “I’m babbling, aren’t I? I’ll shut up now.”

Sherlock looks completely shell-shocked, the poor man. John sniffs, hangs his head. “Sorry for springing it at you like this,” he mutters. “Hope it doesn’t make you too uncomfortable. As I said, feel free to delete it.”

After what feels like age during which John has been melting under his unwavering gaze, Sherlock snaps out of his stroll through his mind palace or wherever he went. “But you’re not gay,” he states.

John lets out a long breath, glances up at him through his lashes. “Well, turns out I’m not entirely straight, either.”

Sherlock blinks as apparently this bit of new information computes. His lower lip twitches. He nods to himself. “So ... you really ... with _me_?”

John nods. “Yep. If you’re at all interested.”

Sherlock blinks a few times, before turning abruptly and making for the stairs. “Tell Hopkins I won’t be available when she phones. I need to think.” With that, he vaults up the stairs, leaving John alone in a sea of cardboard and other packaging, shelf-parts and discarded tools.

–<o>–

Sherlock doesn’t show his face again for what remainder of the day, having withdrawn to his room and locked the door. He doesn’t come out for either tea or food. John fervently hopes he hasn’t dealt a fatal blow to their friendship with his offer. Sherlock didn’t seem completely appalled by his words, rather overwhelmed and out of his depth. Touched, too, in a strange way. John wonders what’s going through his mind now, whether he’s actually considering the proposal.

No, he doesn’t ‘wonder’. He feels electrified, as if he’s touched a live wire. He’s desperately anxious. He can’t concentrate on anything, isn’t hungry or thirsty, finds himself pacing, pacing the living room like a caged tiger, always listening for sounds from Sherlock’s room. But it’s eerily silent in there. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know whether to approach Sherlock again – perhaps under the disguise of bringing him some tea and a snack, the silly man has barely eaten today. Perhaps he just needs time to process all this. Hell, John needs time to process it. _He thinks you’re attractive. He said he thinks you’re attractive. This must count for something, even if it doesn’t lead to anything physical or romantic between you._

In the end, John can’t stand the oppressive silence of the flat anymore, puts on his running clothes, grabs his trainers and ventures out for a quick dash through Regent’s Park to burn off some of his nervous energy and clear his mind. Thankfully, due to the overcast weather and the threat of rain the park is mostly deserted, meaning John has no difficulty observing social distancing rules. He returns to Baker Street when a fine drizzle sets in. He is hungry. Speedy’s Café is closed but for deliveries. For a brief moment, he wonders if Fred’s chippy is still open. Takeaway places are still allowed to serve customers as long as they can be kept far enough apart from each other. He decides against it, not wanting to have to wait outside in the rain with a bunch of other people. There should be enough food in the flat to rustle up some dinner for him and, should he feel inclined to eat at all, Sherlock, too.

–<o>–

Obviously, Sherlock doesn’t feel inclined to, either. John tries to distract himself with taking a shower, making an improvised curry from leftover vegetables and watching the Corona coverage on the BBC followed by the evening news. Then, instead of giving his novel another try he pops in the _Master and Commander_ DVD and watches that. The film does grip his attention. He’s seen it before, but because it’s so rich in period detail and has well-rounded, somewhat odd characters it’s enjoyable on a re-watch as well, despite the fact that one of the protagonists who plays the violin reminds him of Sherlock, whose own instrument sits deserted in its case next to the music stand.

John goes to bed early after brushing his teeth, taking his laptop with him. He doubts he’ll be able to fall asleep quickly, but perhaps the exercise and the fresh air helped. He dozes off while trying to write up the last case they had together before being quarantined.

–<o>–

He wakes to a dark room and a crick in his neck from resting his head and back against the headboard. His laptop, to his surprise, is sitting on his bedside table plugged in to charge. He doesn’t remember doing that. He also doesn’t remember putting something heavy on top of the blanket where it covers his feet and lower legs. He gasps in a startled breath when his eyes fall on a dark form sitting there. A dark form with curly hair that smells faintly of Sherlock’s deodorant and aftershave and whatever he cooked up in his experiment in the morning.

“It’s shortly after two in the morning,” says Sherlock quietly.

“What?”

“You were wondering how long you have slept. You are also asking yourself what I am doing here at this time.”

John runs a hand over his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose and scoots up the headboard into a sitting position, groaning as his neck and shoulders protest. “Well, then?” he demands. “Why _are_ you here? Not a case, is it?”

Sherlock shakes his head. He is holding something in his hands. Could be papers. “No, no case. Not ... as such. I ...,” judging from the sound, he swallows. His posture straightens. He shuffles the papers in his hands. “I’ve thought about your ... proposal.”

John’s heartbeat picks up. “Oh?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Sherlock stands abruptly and holds the papers out to John. They consist of several A4 pages. He can’t really make out what’s on them in the dim light from the streetlamps outside the curtained window.

“This should ... explain,” says Sherlock, stepping back hurriedly as if he’s burned himself getting too close to John. John curses the gloom that makes it almost impossible to see his features. He frowns at the pages.

“A letter?”

“Not quite. More a ... manual. Of sorts. Outlining a possible future ... endeavour.”

“A possible future endeavour? Sherlock, I know I’m slower than usual right now, it being the middle of the bloody night and everything, but you’re making even less sense than usual.”

Sherlock sighs, shifts uneasily, his dressing down swaying. “I thought it would make things easier,” he defends himself, sounding pitifully unsure. “I don’t ... I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how to explain these things in words. Hence the ...,” he motions awkwardly towards the pages on John’s lap, swallows again. “Hence the pictures.”

“But you’re brilliant with words,” remarks John. He glances down at the papers. “Pictures?”

“Not very good ones, but they should ... suffice in getting the idea across. I hope.”

John is both confused and curious. He reaches for the switch of the bedside lamp but withdraws his hand again. Sherlock sounds incredibly nervous and out of his depth. He’d probably hate to have all his insecurities exposed by bright light.

“Okay. I’ll have a look in a moment,” says John. “But perhaps you could ... you know, give me a hint of what to expect.”

“It’s a manual, as I said. It concerns ... what you said earlier. And how to proceed from there. With the ... the shelves.”

“The shelves?”

Sherlock nods.

John watches him shift from one foot to the other again, his hands hidden in the pockets of his dressing gown. Picking up the first page of the papers, John squints at it. It looks a bit like an IKEA instruction manual. He can read the name Sherlock in capital letters where one would normally find the name of the IKEA item. There is what looks like a drawing underneath. No, two drawings. The second page has more drawings, so has the third. They’re quite basic from what he can make out, but he recognises that one of the figures depicted has a curly mop of hair and the other appears to be wearing a striped garment very much like a jumper he possesses.

Something warm and fuzzy begins to spread from his middle all through his body. He huffs softly, gazes up at Sherlock, begins to smile

“This isn’t about IKEA shelving, is it?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

John glances at the ‘manual’ again, his smile broadening until he is laughing softly, happily. “This is ... it’s about us.”

Sherlock clears his throat. “Indeed it is. Silly, I know, but—”

“No, not at all,” John interjects quickly, shaking his head. “Not silly, Sherlock. This is ... it’s ... brilliant. And I know you’ll hate me for saying it, but it’s kinda cute, too. I’m pants at talking about ... stuff. Emotional shit, I mean. What happened down in the other flat ... I don’t think I’ve ever done so much talking before. Ever. For a while, I feared it had backfired spectacularly. Perhaps it hasn’t. And you, I take it, are even worse at talking about feelings. So is this ... a manual how you think we should conduct ... what? A relationship?”

“I might be mistaken – although I severely doubt it, being a genius and everything – but I believe we already _are_ in a relationship, John Watson, and have been for some time,” declares Sherlock. Some of his habitual arrogant confidence has returned to his voice. His skittish dance next to John’s bed has ceased. “No, this manual, for lack of a better description, concerns mostly the ... er ... putting up shelves part.”

John can’t help a chuckle breaking forth. “The ‘putting up shelves’ part? Seriously, Sherlock. Is this your way of telling me that yes, you’d like to continue conducting a relationship with me – because, genius, you’re perfectly right: we’ve been in one all along but were too stupid to notice it – only that now you’d like to add some shagging as well?”

Sherlock’s breath hitches at those last words. The way he squirms with embarrassment is answer enough.

John grins, feeling elated. “So you drew a little ... uh,” he tries to peruse the second and third page again, “vaguely pornographic comic to communicate what you’d like to do?”

“It’s not pornographic,” returns Sherlock. “It’s just ...,” he withdraws his hands from his pockets and flaps them vaguely between them. “Your deduction about my level of practical experience is correct. When it comes to physical relationships, as well as sex, I mean. Not my area. No previous interest. No ... expertise. I do have a great deal of theoretical knowledge, of course, because it’s been useful for casework in the past. But I’ve never ... I never wanted to actually experience it, before.”

“Not even for experimental purposes? To understand what it’s like? What it feels like?”

Sherlock sniffs. “That would have required willing partners who I also felt some kind of ... connection to. Until you came along, this combination had not materialised. Not that I had been looking for it, precisely. The one other time I deemed myself ... infatuated with somebody, this turned out to be a major mistake. I have steered clear of similar romantic entanglements ever since.”

“What happened?” enquires John gently.

Sherlock shrugs. “Back at University, there was someone at my college in Cambridge I felt close to for a while. I thought it was mutual. He pretended to be my friend, even appeared to show romantic and sexual interest in me.”

“Pretended?” asks John in alarm.

Sherlock inclines his head. “Yes. It turned out ‘dating the Freak’ was part of a cruel bet, instigated by Sebastian Wilkes and his cronies – you may remember him from the Blind Banker case. He and his circle of moronic flunkies paid a popular student to hang out with me and try to ... seduce me. Bit like _The Taming of the Shrew,_ I take it. Luckily, I found out before he succeeded. Trouble was, I had genuinely liked Victor before I discovered the truth.”

“Shit. Sherlock, I’m really sorry you had to put up with such arseholes during your time at Uni. Pity I didn’t know when we were hired by Wilkes. What a fucking wanker. I’d have chinned him, the tosser.”

“Well, I got my revenge,” says Sherlock with a trace of smugness. “But yes, I understand this whole experience dealt my already dormant libido the final blow.”

“Not surprising,” remarks John. “But ... er ... it’s reawakened now, has it? Your libido?”

Sherlock huffs. “So it would appear. Not by my design and rather against my will, mind you. It’s quite inconvenient, really. I hate to be enslaved by the demands of my transport. But apparently, apart from food and drink and sleep, it now requires certain ... stimulation as well. When this problem ... arose in the past – those few times it did – I dealt with it expediently and on my own. Unfortunately now, certain evidence suggests the involvement of another person might be required. As I said, I have no data on how I might react to such involvement, whether I’ll like it or not. But ... I think some experimentation would be acceptable.”

John nods, licks his lips, suppresses a grin because of Sherlock’s stilted yet heartfelt speech. “Just for the record ... To make sure I get this right. This other person ... you’d like it to be me?”

“Obviously, John. Who else? The mere thought of it being somebody other than you ...” Sherlock makes a disgusted sound and actually shakes himself a little.

John laughs softly. He’s touched. His heart is overflowing with love of this ridiculous, brilliant, awkward man. “Okay. Good. That’s ... that’s great. I’m honoured. So ... uhm ... any plans on how and when to start this ... experiment?”

Sherlock fidgets again. “Well, not _right now_ , obviously,” he says quickly. “Perhaps not for a long while. I ... I’m not quite sure yet what I’ll be comfortable with. But I’d like to try. With you. If you’re willing.”

“I told you I’d be more than willing, Sherlock,” John tells him earnestly. “But there’s no rush. I’ll have a look at your manual, okay? Perhaps I’ll make one of my own.”

Sherlock laughs softly. “‘How to turn on John Watson’?”

John chuckles. “Yeah, something like it.”

Sherlock makes a thoughtful sound. “Could be helpful. Would save pesky talking, too.”

“Quite, yes. Uhm ... Sherlock ... I know this might be a bit soon, but would you like to join me here? You must be cold. Also, perhaps we could go through this here together, see if I understand everything correctly. We don’t have to,” John adds quickly, seeing Sherlock tense slightly. “Just a suggestion.”

Sherlock hesitates briefly, before nodding. “All right. Actually, I’m not sure if all of my pictograms communicate their intended meaning clearly.”

John flips back the blanket and motions with his hand. “Why don’t you get in here and explain things to me to make sure I understand what you’ve drawn.”

Sherlock walks around the bed, sheds his dressing gown – he is back in his pyjamas underneath – and crawls into bed next to John, arranging himself a little stiffly with his back against the headboard, his shoulder just shy of touching John’s. John bumps it gently with his own. “Relax, Sherlock. I’m not going to do anything to you don’t want, okay?”

“I wish I knew what I wanted,” mutters Sherlock. John switches on the bedside lamp and shuffles the papers. “Well, I thought this here was a start. Let’s see. There’s you on the first page, dressed and unhappy looking, and undressed in bed and smiling with another bloke snuggling up to you. So this is about getting you from a) to b), yes?”

Sherlock nods. His cheeks are flaming. John bumps his shoulder again, and this time, Sherlock bumps back, the corners of his mouth twitching in a smile. “The drawing is quite good,” remarks John. He looks at the second page and grins. “And these little pictograms here, they’re cute. They do look like the ones in the IKEA manuals.”

“I traced some of them and added things, such as distinguishing markers.”

“I see. So ... if I understand this correctly, up there in the speech bubble next to the little Sherlock are the tools required for the ... construction. Or deconstruction, rather. Because – and please don’t be shocked now – I’d really like to take you apart eventually. Switch off your brilliant brain for a bit and make you just feel.” Sherlock twitches at this and shifts where he sits, swallowing hard.

“The prospect is both alarming and intriguing,” he manages, his voice hoarse.

John laughs. “Yes. Hope your natural curiosity will prevail. So, let’s see ... lips, hands. Lips with an exclamation mark? Talking?”

“Kissing, John. I’d like to try proper kissing.”

“Oh, right. Yes, we should definitely try that. What’s that thing next to the bottle of lube? A sombrero?”

Sherlock huffs indignantly but smiles at the same time. “It’s supposed to be a condom,” he snarls. “Unless of course you have a thing for sombreros. I think I’ve got one in my collection of costumes.”

They gaze at each other and begin to chuckle. “I don’t think I have a thing for sombreros,” says John. “But who knows. You in a sombrero and nothing else ... I’m sure that’ll turn me on. Actually, you could be wearing anything or nothing at all and I’d be ... you know ... interested.”

“You find me ... sexy?”

John sighs, gazing at him steadily. “Yes, Sherlock, I find you sexy. All the time, basically. And that’s even before you open your mouth to say something brilliant, or lower your voice to this indecent timbre it sometimes has, or walk past me and smell the way you do. I just ... really, really like you, okay?”

Sherlock nods, looking a little stunned. “Okay. That’s good to know,” he rumbles. _His voice has dropped at least an octave now. He’s doing it on purpose. Oh God, he’s going to be the death of me._ Sherlock’s little smirk confirms his theory. John takes a deep breath, shifts into a more comfortable position because he has begun to feel a little hot, and nods towards the sheet in his hands.

“The little chap in the striped jumper is me?”

“Yes.”

“Why does it look as if the jumper is riding up in almost every picture?”

“Accident? Also, I like it when your t-shirt or jumper rides up. You’re always so buttoned up, John. I have to treasure the little moments I can actually glimpse some skin.”

“Fair enough.” Inspiration strikes John and he pulls up his t-shirt so that a sliver of skin is revealed. Sherlock stares. John might be mistaken, but there is definite hunger in his eyes. It’s exhilarating.

“Better like this?” asks John, winking at Sherlock roguishly.

Sherlock nods, his pupils wide and dark. “Yes. Much,” he swallows, “... much better.”

“Okay. So ... little Sherlock here looks sad because he’s alone in 221B, but happy when he is with John. Understood. That’s mutual. Next pic ... John and a woman holding hands are crossed out while John holding hands with Sherlock is okay. Meaning ... no more dating for me, right?” Sherlock nods.

“Okay. I’d say no more dating for you, either, then, but that’s never been an issue. Okay, next pic. Broken hearts ... John phoning an Umbrella? What—?”

“Think, John.”

“Oh, oh, I get it. When we have problems, relationship problems, I’m not allowed to contact Mycroft.”

“Exactly. I’d like to keep him out of our personal issues.”

“Yeah, I’d want that, too. Okay, next page ... We’re kissing. And ... more kissing? Snogging? Or are we eating each other’s faces?”

“John. Do take this seriously, please.”

“Right, sorry. Next pic. Sleeping in the same bed. Or not. What does 1/2 mean? Half/Half? Oh, you want us to sometimes sleep together and sometimes apart. Yes, that’s acceptable. Guess one needs a little space now and again. Okay. Next one. Oooh, Sherlock.”

“Shut up.”

“Is that my hand down your trousers?”

“Shut. Up. Or I’ll leave.”

“Don’t leave. I’m teasing you. So ... some ... er ... petting would be okay?”

“Probably. I’m willing to give it a try.”

John smiles brightly at him. Sherlock watches him from the corner of his eye, then turns to him more fully. “What? Are you suddenly so happy because I agreed to have sex with you?”

“I’m happy because you agreed to be with me – however that may turn out to be. I really mean it, Sherlock. There is no rush, and if you decide you don’t want sex after all, I’ll respect that.”

“But wouldn’t you miss it eventually?”

“Perhaps. I haven’t really missed it so far, mind you. I haven’t had any – partnered – sex ever since Mary turned out to be an assassin and shot you.”

“That’s been a while.”

“Indeed. I’m happy to experiment with you. Some of this,” he nods towards the papers, “will be new for me, too.”

“Oh?”

“Well, I’ve never given another bloke a blow-job before, if that’s what that last drawing, the one with the question mark, is supposed to show.”

“Interesting. My deductions indicated otherwise.”

John laughs and pokes Sherlock’s side with his elbow. “Your deductions are occasionally totally wrong.”

“Never _totally_ wrong. And only rarely a little off the mark. You have had intercourse with men before.”

It’s not a question. John blushes, ducks his head. Sherlock is right, of course. But John has always been keen to keep that part of him secret. There’s nothing wrong with swinging both ways, nothing at all. He knows this. And yet ... so far, he lacked the courage to simply admit he’s bisexual.

“Not ... I wouldn’t exactly call it ‘intercourse’,” he returns. “Some snogging and groping, the odd hand-job while I was at Uni. Once, at a party, a bloke gave me head when we were both rather pissed. But that’s it. I never actually slept with another man. And what I’ve done in the past ... It never .. meant anything before.” He gazes at Sherlock earnestly. “It does now, and I don’t want to mess this up.”

“Well, I think you can rest assured that any messing up will be firmly placed in my quarter. I’m not good with ... people.”

“You’re much better than I. At least you’re honest, with yourself and others, even if this honesty hurts at times. But I ... I called you a ‘machine’ once despite knowing that’s the exact opposite of what you are. I hit you when you returned from the dead instead of hugging you and telling you how much I’d fucking missed you. I married somebody else and made you Best Man and stand by and watch. I was angry at you for so long when in truth I was angry at myself, blamed you for stuff you never did, blamed all of my failings on you. What kind of messed up arsehole does all that to a person he loves most in the world? Honestly, Sherlock, you should think twice about this, about getting involved with me.”

“I’m already involved with you, John, and have been for some time. I don’t want it to end. And don’t forget, I’ve hurt you, too. I let you grieve, for a long time I took you for granted. I’m as much to blame for the bad things that happened between us as you.”

They gaze at each other. Sherlock’s eyes are grave and kind. Cautiously, John reaches out and touches his cheek, running his thumb over a sharp cheekbone and brushing a few curls behind Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock sighs and leans into the touch. John is touched and amazed by his responsiveness. _But perhaps,_ he reasons, _Sherlock is as touch starved as I or even more._

“Clean slate, then? And a new beginning?” suggest John.

Sherlock nods. “Yes. With kissing and options for more.”

John laughs softly. “Sounds great.” His hand is still cupping Sherlock’s cheek. “About the kissing ...”

Sherlock’s eyes flick to John’s lips. He licks his own. “Yes?” he rumbles.

“Wanna give it a try?”

Sherlock smiles. “Yes. I’ll have to fetch my spreadsheet first, though.”

“Your _what_?”

Sherlock bursts out laughing. His eyes sparkle mischievously. “Your face just now. Priceless.”

“Oh, you—” growls John, tackling him. They wrestle for a bit, laughing and making a mess of the sheets and the blanket, pushing one of the pillows to the floor, until Sherlock is lying on his back with John on top of him, pinning his arms over his head with one hand and running the other down his throat and chest. Both are breathing hard. Sherlock is clearly aroused, his cheeks flushed and his pupils dilated, the beginnings of an erection palpable through the thin cotton of his pyjamas. John is in a similar state. He swallows as he looks down at Sherlock who is gazing up at him expectantly, his lips quirked in a faint smile.

“Well?” he prompts, and when John hesitates, he snorts impatiently and surges up, his lips meeting and releasing John’s with a loud smack. It’s so silly that John begins to laugh again. Sherlock joins in.

“Is this what you call kissing?” enquires John.

Sherlock glares playfully at him, lifts his head again and blows a raspberry on John’s cheek. “Better?”

His eyes are sparkling. Whatever nerves or anxiety he must be feeling he hides well. John is grateful for the silliness. It eases his own worries about getting this wrong, about overstepping Sherlock’s boundaries and going too fast. But Sherlock is giggling happily, he is definitely enjoying himself. And perhaps this is the way forward: to take the monumental shift in their relationship seriously but not get weighed down by it, to get closer to the other while having silly fun at the same time.

“This was a pitiful attempt, Sherlock,” scolds John, bends down and blows a raspberry on Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock squirms and laughs and oh, isn’t the friction of their bodies and particularly their lower halves pressed against each other rather nice? John grins mischievously into the soft skin where Sherlock’s neck meets his shoulder and sucks a little. Sherlock tenses, makes a deep, rumbling sound, and tilts his head to give John better access.

“You’re skipping the kissing part, John,” he mutters. “Neck sucking is only the third stage in the first field on page three.”

John chuckles. “Oh, right. Apologies. Got carried away a little. Let’s do it by your manual, then.” He shifts so that his face is level with Sherlock’s, hesitates briefly to gather himself, and meets Sherlock’s lips half-way. This time, it’s no silly smack. It’s careful and tender and a bit awkward because they have to negotiate whose nose goes where first. Sherlock isn’t an expert kisser, that much is clear. But he is ... honest. Genuine. There is nothing showy or pretentious about the way he experimentally moves his lips against John’s. He doesn’t hide the fact that he’s not done this very often. Neither does he conceal that he seems to be enjoying what he is doing, judging by the soft sighs and low moans he utters occasionally. Sherlock tastes of toothpaste. John feels slight stubble on his upper lip because Sherlock hadn’t shaved in the morning. John is certain that his own taste, feel and reactions are being meticulously recorded for later analysis and deduction, and probable use, later on.

He releases Sherlock’s hands to stroke his hair. Sherlock’s hands begin to wander. They roam over John’s ears and face, his neck and shoulders before they settle on his back to draw him closer. The kiss deepens. Tentatively, Sherlock touches his tongue to John’s, hesitates briefly when John responds in kind, to then become bolder and begin to explore John’s mouth. Again, he is thorough and experimental, and there is something touching and sweet about how much concentration he devotes to the task. John has kissed and been kissed by a lot of people in his life, but this feels new and heady, particularly because it isn’t perfect. It’s sloppy and a bit awkward. Sherlock is clearly lacking skill and experience. He makes up for it with curiosity and utter dedication. John is touched. He’s never been the subject of such devoted, minute exploration during kissing or other intimate acts. Perhaps, he reasons, he should have known that Sherlock would be like this. Always the scientist, the observer. Braving this unknown terrain in this way may also give Sherlock some sense of control and security. John is happy to tag along wherever he decides to go.

The general direction, apparently, is downward. Sherlock’s hands wander further along John’s back, the fingers following the vertebrae, until they reach the waistband of his pyjamas. Here they halt briefly. John takes a gamble to suck on Sherlock’s tongue, which earns him a rumbling moan, a full-body shudder, and a firm grip on his backside by two large hands. Sherlock’s legs slide apart to fit John between them.

It’s pure bliss. John wants to indulge, wants to snog Sherlock senseless and rut him into the mattress. But he restrains himself and even manages to disengage his mouth from Sherlock’s which earns him a displeased sound. Sherlock gazes up at him from dark eyes which now acquire a hint of doubt. “Not good?” he asks.

John smiles. “Amazingly good. But perhaps a little too fast?”

“Is it?”

“I’m asking you.”

Sherlock thinks for a moment, before cocking his head and shrugging. “We might as well go ahead. Your undeniable prowess and skill in the kissing department have made me curious, not to mention have affected me otherwise. We are both aroused – rather painfully, I have to admit to my shame. So we might as well ... you know. Do the deed.”

“The ‘deed’?” snickers John.

Sherlock lightly smacks his arse. “I’m giving you permission to advance to field three on page three of the manual.”

“That was ... hands in pants, yes?”

“Yes. You may touch other parts of me, too.”

“Okay. You as well. Touch me, if you want.”

If it were at all possible, Sherlock’s eyes darken even more. “Oh, I do want, John,” he growls, his voice a deep rumble. “But preferably when I can fully concentrate on the task without my penis making stupid demands for external stimulation. So if you would, please, proceed, I’d be much obliged.”

John smiles at him warmly, his heart bursting with fondness. “With pleasure.”

Neither of them lasts long after this. One of John’s hands creep under Sherlock’s t-shirt and begins to stroke his nipples which are already hard nubs, to then wander down his side to his pyjamas. By then, Sherlock is already panting softly and hiding his face in John’s shoulder while trying to peek at what he’s doing at the same time. John gently cups him through the fabric of his trousers, eliciting a rumbling moan, to then advance beneath the elastic to touch coarse hair and soft, delicate, hot skin. Sherlock has been honest about his level of arousal. He twitches almost violently when John touches him for the first time, and gasps for breath. A few cautious strokes and Sherlock is crying out John’s name, his voice muffled by John’s shoulder, his body tense as a string, his hands gripping John’s backside like a vice as he spills over John’s fingers and then sags against him, his chest heaving as he struggles for air.

“Wow,” mutters John, breathing rather hard himself and fighting to keep his arousal in check. “You okay?

Sherlock huffs softly, his face still buried in his shoulder. He is trembling. “Not sure. System check is still under way.”

John laughs softly, leaning in to kiss his hair. He strokes his back soothingly.

Slowly, Sherlock begins to disentangle himself, looking rather a mess. He gazes at John, his usual sharpness dulled by endorphins, and begins to smile. “Apparently, the overall verdict is going to be favourable. Thank you. I’ll have to work on my stamina, it appears. I didn’t expect to get overwhelmed so easily. It’s a bit embarrassing.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s honest, and also a bit flattering.”

“For you, yes.” Sherlock props himself up on one elbow and inspects his pyjamas. John fishes for Kleenex on his bedside table and hands him one, after using another to wipe his own hand. After cleaning himself, Sherlock nods towards John’s crotch. “Need any assistance dealing with that?”

John grins at him. “Yes, I think I do.”

“Good. Which technique do you prefer?”

John rolls his eyes. “Sherlock, just stick your hand down there. That’ll do the trick, I’m sure. I’m so aroused, I guess I could come from your voice alone.”

“My voice?”

“Yes, your voice. It’s ... sexy. Especially when you drop it by an octave.”

Sherlock smiles wolfishly. “You mean like this?” he purrs.

John’s cock twitches. “Fuck yes, exactly like that,” he moans.

“Oh.” Sherlock’s eyes have lit up. John knows that the challenge has been accepted, and that he’s probably in for a number of very pleasurable experiments in the future. His grin broadens but it almost immediately replaced by a gasp when, without preamble, Sherlock’s hand slides into his pyjamas and begins to stroke. It’s pretty obvious that he’s never touched another (living) man’s cock before. The angle is awkward and the grip a little too light compared to what John prefers, but neither of it matters. To be touched like this again, and what’s more, to be touched by Sherlock, is everything. It’s experimental and reverential, sweet and raw and sexy. John wishes it could go on forever, but his body decides otherwise. After only a few strokes, he is coming, moaning Sherlock’s name.

He comes back to himself, still twitching with aftershocks, to find Sherlock watching him with a curious expression, a mixture of fondness, excitement, love, smugness and the tiniest hint of worry. John leans in to kiss the latter off his face. “Thank you, love,” he says roughly. “That was brilliant.”

Sherlock hums thoughtfully while wiping his hand on another Kleenex. “I’ve already determined several parameters that could be improved, based on your reactions and my deductions about your sexual preferences. I foresee that we will use this lockdown very profitably.”

John laughs happily, kissing him again before flopping onto his back with a sigh. “Oh really? And what, genius, will we be doing?”

Sherlock winks at him. John finds him particularly lovely like this: dishevelled, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright from a good orgasm, loose and mischievous and happy. “Oh, you know. Putting up shelves, and other ... DIY. I may extend the manual. Feel free to add some instructions, too.”

“I will, definitely. So, you’ve come to like putting up shelves, have you?”

Sherlock lies down next to him, frowns at John’s outstretched arm, considers the obvious invitation. He rolls his eyes good-naturedly, before snuggling against John’s side with a contented sigh, snaking an arm over John’s middle and squeezing it affectionately. “It’s surprisingly enjoyable. Who’d have thought? But only with the right company.”

“I’m honoured.” He kisses Sherlock’s nose. Sherlock kisses his lips and they proceed to kiss gently for a while until Sherlock yawns.

“Wanna stay here tonight?” enquires John, hoping the answer will be favourable.

“If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t. I’d love it if you stayed.”

“Okay. It’s odd, the concept of sharing a bed like this, lying half on top of each other. Where do all the arms go? This position will cut off circulation in half of our extremities.”

“We’ll sort it out. Shift a little like this. There you are.”

John switches off the light as they settle. They lie in silence for a while, their breathing evening out. John is about to drop off when next to him, Sherlock stirs slightly. “John?”

“Hmm?”

“I think we screwed on the shelves the wrong way.”

“What shelves?”

“Downstairs in 221C. They should have been turned over, so that the shelves rest on the supports and not hang from them.”

“That’s what you’re thinking about now? Seriously, Sherlock? You’ve just had the first partnered sex of your life and you’re going on about sodding furniture?”

“Well, I was thinking about shelves and—”

“Switch off your brain and go to sleep. We’ll see to the bloody shelves tomorrow.”

“The literal or the figurative ones?”

John laughs. “Both, you nutter. If you want.”

He feels Sherlock smile against the skin of his neck. “Oh yes, I do. Excellent idea. Good night, John.”

“Good night, Sherlock.”

–< The End >—

[ Illustration: Sherlock's manual page one](http://www.anke.edoras-art.de/images/sherlock_fanfic/putting-up-shelves/sherlock_putting-up-shelves_01.jpg)

[ Illustration: Sherlock's manual page two](http://www.anke.edoras-art.de/images/sherlock_fanfic/putting-up-shelves/sherlock_putting-up-shelves_02.jpg)

[ Illustration: Sherlock's manual page three](http://www.anke.edoras-art.de/images/sherlock_fanfic/putting-up-shelves/sherlock_putting-up-shelves_03.jpg)

[ Illustration: John and Sherlock in bed together](http://www.anke.edoras-art.de/images/sherlock_fanfic/putting-up-shelves/sherlock_putting-up-shelves_04.jpg)


End file.
